No More
by Flashpoint.of.Fun
Summary: Danny Phantom was one of the most powerful beings on the planet. The government knew this, and power always helps when taking out a hit-list.


**Well here is my latest, as always, I don't own Danny Phantom. *sigh* (I really wish I did) Anyways, here we go.**

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He breathed softly into the night, angry tears pouring down his face. He was at his breaking point; he was so done. Perhaps they could see it, in the downward slope of his broad shoulders, and the lack of playful gleam in his eyes. It was strange; to see creases on the forehead of someone who had rarely ceased to smile. The pain in his eyes burned, and he felt the pounding of his heart far too acutely. He looked at his hands, their soft glow forcing a lump into the back of his throat. He turned his face up to the sky, the pulsing aura around him brightening briefly as he met the moon's wary gaze. The stars that he so adored peeked timidly from the haze of light pollution, and he longed for the dreams he used to have. He knew very well that those days, that dreamer, had long since died. He brushed his hair back from his forehead as he sunk to his knees on the Ops. Center, his cheeks moist with silver tear trails. He stirred as he shot a small beam into the sky, sighing as it faded away. He clenched his calloused hands into fists, gritting his teeth before leaping to his feet and barreling toward the edge of the roof, pulling out of his headlong rush as his feet met the lip. He unclenched his hands, heaving for breath more out of emotion than exertion. He stared into the cold night, the buildings around him too bright for the lateness. Winding his hands through into his hair he mentally cried to the urbanization. He tugged at his locks mercilessly before he knew he couldn't hold it back anymore. He felt the lament bubble at his lips before it forced its way into the stagnant night in an agonized scream. "Am I just a _weapon_? A tool to be used by anyone with authority?"His voice cracked and his wail tapered into a whimper. "Am I just a monster? Am I not human?"

He ripped at his snowy hair. They had come a few months after the Disasteroid, their perfectly pressed suits portraying authority and gleaming white teeth filling their conniving smiles. They were all from different places with different missions. But in reality they all wanted the same thing. They had come to ask him if he was willing to eliminate some of their nation's problems. At first they were simple things, things that made him feel good, like getting rid of a nuclear power plant, or guarding a charity ball. Then it started to escalate. Sabotage an enemy submarine, unarm a rebellion. It wore on him; he could begin to feel his conscience crying at him. What if the choices he was making in the name of the government were wrong? He was almost unstoppable, and what if he leant that power to the wrong cause? But still he treaded on, shadowy threads of guilt hanging on him.

It was almost three years before they asked him something unspeakable, a question that had sent the blood rushing from his face. It was a simple question, straightforward easy to say no to, and yet it had burned against his obsession like hot coals. It was five words. Simple. A man in black shades looked at him, a seventeen year old boy, straight-faced as he asked "Will you eliminate this man?" And they had chosen the entry into this dark realm far too well. He had been a cruel dictator, with an oppressed nation crying at his feet as he treaded over them with a smirk. The boy had been hard to sway at first, but videos of cruelty changed his mind frighteningly quick. It was simple, for a ghost's obsession is a double edged knife that is far too easy to impale oneself upon, and so while the seventeen year old had half of him screamed that killing is wrong, the primal, ancient part of him raged against the cruel man and demanded blood.

He would forever remember that man's face as he held his left hand against a too-bright spot gleaming red, his eyes wide in surprise as the light fled from them. He had had nightmares for weeks, had promised himself that this was a onetime thing, yet he was drawn in again as he heard the cries of people in pain. Again and again he was roped in, one for the good of many, right? But it still chafed on him, filled him with resentment for his own hands, his own face. He glared at his reflection, the dimness of his eyes revealing a depth of pain that ran too deep to be human. He was a protector, and his obsession felt the double standard far better his human half. Every person he silenced gnawed at him, cried out against his very nature, yet those conniving smiles knew just where to press to get him to cave.

 _No_. He gently unwound his hands from his hair. No more. He was done, he could hurt no more. If he did he knew he would shatter. He reached up and touched one of the tears leaking down his face, drying his eyes with hands that were still in their resolve. He looked up and saw the golden disk of the sun creeping up, promising a better tomorrow. He backed away from the roof's edge and drew on his familiar energy, channeling it through hands stained red by suffering. He would cave no more. He knew those conniving smiles would be back, and he could feel the message he would send tingling in his fingertips. He strode to the edge of the roof with renewed purpose and floated to the ground, far too vivid memories overlaying the world around him. And he created, for the first time in a long time he used his hands to make, and with each swipe of his hand he straightened his wide shoulders, the gleam of determination in his eyes almost seeming like the old shine of happiness that used to reside there. When he finished he turned to his home, heavy chains of guilt feeling only slightly lighter, but easier to carry, because he knew that he would allow no more weight to be added.

And when a conniving smile made his way to the door of the boy's house he felt a shiver race down his spine. Because flanking the walkway were two rows of life-sized statues, the first one portraying a face with eyes widened in surprise, its left hand clutching at a gaping hole in its chest, with drops of ice gleaming around its hand, and a detailed crest on its shoulder was marking it as a far too familiar dictator.

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 **Well then, that turned out different than I thought it would. I sincerely hope you enjoyed, and if you did well, you're welcome. ;)**


End file.
